


I Wish I Had

by shamusandstone (theleaveswant)



Category: CSI: NY, due South
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-30
Updated: 2008-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/shamusandstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kowalski calls up an old friend to reminisce about something that never happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wish I Had

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-series CSI:NY, pre-season 3 due South (just before the Ray switch), puts it 1997. Thanks to wilde_stallyn for the beta!

“Hang on,” Mac says, shutting the door against the caterwaul of tearing packing tape. “What were you saying?”

“I asked how things were in the Big Apple. What's goin' on?”

“New computer equipment, again. Seems like we upgrade the system every two weeks around here. It's a nuisance, but we've got to keep up. New databases created every day; more and more of our work is done electronically. I get a little paranoid sometimes that it will be programs and algorithms catching criminals soon, not us.”

“Never gonna happen. Know why? Computers have no instincts. They don't get hunches.” In his office in New York Mac chuckles—Kowalski and his legendary hunches. “You're still enjoying the crime lab, then.”

“I am. I have a good team. I've just hired a new detective, actually: Bonasera, who you'll remember I'd just interviewed last time we spoke.”

“Yeah, sure. Sounded like a good cop, notwithstanding my general misgivings around women named Stella.” In Chicago, Ray twists the cap off a brewsky with the hem of his shirt and swigs. “Speaking of, I ran into her the other day. She mentioned you and Claire were having some trouble. Or, more accurately, she accused me of destroying the entire institution of marriage and cited you two as an example. Is that true? Are you okay?”

A hesitant sigh. “We're fine. Things have been a little tense lately, but we're working it through.”

“I've got time, if you wanna talk about it.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“Well, if you change your mind. You listened to me bitch about my marriage enough times, figure I owe it to you to return the favor.” Licks his lips and wanders back to the empty living room with the phone wedged between ear and shoulder. “Although, I might be kinda hard to reach for the next little while.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I'm going sorta undercover . . . I can't really talk about it. Shouldn't even say this much, but I know you'll get a kick out of it: I'm working with Welsh.” And that Mountie everyone says is weird, even for a Canadian. Strange assignment, covering for a cop taking the place of a mobster, but you take what you're given. At least moving won't be hard—he's been basically living out of a carload of boxes since Stella gave him the boot.

“Lucky you,” Mac says, half-sarcastic. “How is the old warhorse?”

“Dunno, haven't talked to him yet myself.”

“That why you called?”

“Partly. Mostly.” A pause. The conspicuous silence of the Great Lakes between them. “I've been thinking about my life a bit lately, I guess. Asking myself 'what if' and all that, you know.”

“Yeah?”

“You remember that night?” No need to specify which night he means. There's only a few it could be to begin with, but some subtlety of intonation marks it beyond ambiguity: The Night We Almost.

Mac looks around; his office is glass-walled, but it is sound-proof, and no one is paying attention now anyway. Nonetheless, he lowers his voice and turns around, shielding the phone with his body. “Yeah.”

“D'you ever think about it?”

“Now and then. Why?” The one transgression Claire hasn't even thought of accusing him of, and the one he came closest to actually committing.

“I think about it. I wonder what would have happened, and what would have happened after.” No couch, so Ray slides down to the floor and leans his back against a wall. Another hit from the bottle.

“Are you drinking?”

“In the sense that there's a beer in my hand. But it's only the second one today.”

Mac glances at the clock but doesn't comment.

“I think about it.” You already said that, idiot. “I wish I'd kissed you. Or you'd kissed me. Anyway I wish there'd been kissing of some description.”

Mac says it so softly he's not sure if he spoke it all, but the phone catches the vibration, transmits it to Chicago as clearly as if he'd whispered in Ray's ear directly: “Me too.”

Ray's eyes flutter closed and he exhales, a mix of gratitude and relief and the release of aired secrets. “Yeah?”

“I wish I'd stayed.”

“I wish I'd asked you. Or made you.”

Mac snorts. “I'd like to see you 'make' me do anything.”

“Oh yeah? Anything in particular you want me to try?” Mac is silent. “I bet I can think of some things. Things you wouldn't mind at all.”

“I'm at work.”

“I know.”

Mac should hang up, right now. Should change the subject at least. Instead he gets up and closes the blinds, then returns to his chair. “What would you have done if I'd stayed?”

Ray grins, leans his head on the plaster. “Depends. Are we by the door or still on the couch?”

“Either.”

“If we're on the couch, I'd put my hand on your cheek and kiss you soft and long and pray you didn't pull away. If you're trying to make a run for it, I'd slam the door shut, spin you around and push you up against it. Then I'd lean in real close--”

“I'd kiss you first.” Mac can almost feel the heat from Ray's wiry body pressed against his. “I'd put my arms around you and pull you in tight.”

Ray sighs, imagining. “That's hot. Do we spend a while making out?”

“Ages. Kissing and touching, our hands pushing up under each other's shirts, until eventually I shove your jacket off onto the floor and we stumble back to the couch.”

“I land on top, straddling you.” Ray straightens his legs out on the floor and sets the bottle down beside him. He brings a hand to his crotch, feels his cock hardening in his jeans. “I pull my t-shirt off over my head and throw it away.”

“I start to unbutton my shirt--”

“But I rip it open before you can finish.”

“Buttons go flying everywhere.”

“And then I'm kissing your shoulders, your chest, your neck, your collarbone, nipples, that scar on your left pec.” Mac moans, letting his arousal take over, as Ray continues his narration. “I can feel it through your pants how hard you are. Straining, already.”

“I start tugging at your belt.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I push you back on the couch, tug your pants down and your cock springs free.”

“I want you.”

“I hold your hips with one hand and wrap the other around your balls. I tug them down, just a little, as I start to suck you.”

“You know jus' what I want.” Panting a little now, in the vision and in reality, with his fly undone and both hands at work to recreate what he's hearing.

Mac has his eyes closed, concentrating on the pictures flashing in his head and speaking only what he sees. “My mouth is wet and I'm taking it all in, as much as I can hold, sucking you until you're just about to come--”

“But I stop you,” Ray gasps, “pull your face up and kiss you. God, I can taste myself on your tongue.”

“You roll over on the couch, push up on your knees. You stroke yourself a little while I take off my own pants.”

“There's a condom in my wallet.”

Mac smiles as he beats off. Good boy, he thinks, even in a fantasy. “I put it on. I wet my fingers to work you open, warm you up. You're so eager and relaxed, so desperate for my cock, it's easy.” Mac hears Ray groan, pictures his eyes rolling back and his face flushed. “I push inside. You're so tight. So warm. And then I—and then--”

Words fade away but the scene plays on, synchronized in both men's minds: Mac grunting as he thrusts, Ray echoing. It's not long before they come: Mac in his office in New York, Ray in his empty apartment in Chicago, both of them on the couch in this imagined world more real than memory.

It takes Mac a moment to catch his breath and gather up the fragments of his mind. “You'll call me again, once you're settled into this secret new job?”

Ray laughs, just as breathless. “You gonna pay for my long distance bill?”

“You gonna pay for my dry-cleaning?” Mac mops himself up with tissues, then buries them in the trash can. He takes another to pat the sweat from his face and collar. “Ray . . .” He wants to say, 'I wish we'd done that for real, years ago,' but he knows why they didn't. They were young, stupid, married—and he still is, the last one. Instead he says “Take care of yourself.”

Ray says, “Me too.”


End file.
